


Bespoke

by Demus



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Office Sex, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Later, Miles would maintain that it was entirely the fault of the waistcoat.' Written for the kink meme; Miles buys Phoenix a new suit and then proceeds to wreck it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bespoke

Later, Miles would maintain that it was entirely the fault of the waistcoat. Dazed, Phoenix would falteringly point out that had Miles not insisted on enlisting the services of _his own tailor_...

It began innocuously enough. The reinstatement of one of the city's most beloved, and least orthodox, defense attorneys was to be a grand occasion, at least in the eyes of his friends and supporters, and Miles Edgeworth was determined that Phoenix should make as striking an impression on the press as he made in the courtroom. To that end, he had meticulously sought out and destroyed every suit in the Wright household and, with Phoenix's jaw still hanging open from the shock, had dragged the man, protesting all the way, to the gentleman's outfitting shop that Miles himself patronised.

“No lover of mine,” Miles stated calmly, as he shepherded Phoenix up the stairs to the fitting room, “will be seen in public wearing that cheap blue monstrosity.”

“Says the man who wears _pink and ruffles_.”

“The mere fabric of which cost more than every single one of your suits put together.” 

Phoenix halted. He turned to face Miles, his lips set in the beginnings of a belligerent moue, and Miles raised a hand to ward off his protests. “You...are the very best person that I know,” he said, glancing to the side, irritated that he couldn't meet Phoenix's eyes to say it. “I wish for the world to see that as clearly as I do.”

There was a pause, then a warm hand slid into his, entwining their fingers together, and Miles looked up to see a wide, embarrassed grin on his boyfriend's face. “You'll say anything to get me in there, huh?” Phoenix said.

The jest softened by the slow stroke of his thumb over Miles' skin, and the prosecutor allowed himself to relax at the touch. “Almost anything. Now come along, Wright. Jacques is a genius, you know.”

*

Bespoke tailoring being what it was, it took nearly a week for the new suit to be ready. During that time Miles graciously allowed Phoenix to be seen outside the house in an off-the-peg number that he'd approved (and paid for). It was beautiful, too, blue so dark that navy almost became black, paired with a fawn tie inoffensive enough to the eyes that Phoenix visibly chafed at its presence. It was a shame that the man was so attached to bright colours, really; there was an elegance to the darkness of that suit, a quiet, unassuming sophistication that, despite the severe handicap of Wright's ridiculous hair, gave the defense attorney a certain gravitas.

(“What was that about my ass?” Phoenix had asked, squinting over Miles' shoulder at the email he was typing to Franziska.

Miles had resisted the urge to slap him.)

In fact, the affair was playing havoc with the prosecutor's nerves. However becoming it was, the navy suit was merely an entrée and Miles found himself eagerly anticipating the finished item. Phoenix had been remarkably cagey with details. Perhaps all those years of mystery, plotting and conniving had done him some good, since he could finally keep a damn secret at last (not that it mattered terribly much anymore – the two of them couldn't be more 'out' if they were caught fornicating in the witness stand, a suggestion that Phoenix _had_ been roundly slapped for). The only reliable distraction from the whole thing, Miles had found, was to take a long drive out into the wilderness beyond the city, Trucy and Pess in tow, and immerse himself in the exhausting business of hiking with an irrepressible magician and a dog whose training lacked rather more than her master was prepared to admit.

Unfortunately, since he'd refused point-blank to allow the Wrights to keep living at their office, the return home to a lazy, smirking Phoenix spread all over his couch like a complacent throw-rug only served to exacerbate matters.

Oh, it was going to be a slow afternoon. Miles idly spun a pen through his fingers. Honestly, how did the universe expect him to collate evidence lists for closed cases when somewhere in the city, Phoenix Wright was being lovingly eased into a brand new, perfectly-tailored suit? The anticipation was maddening. He contemplated setting something on fire, with a view to creating a sufficiently dangerous incident to distract his wandering thoughts, then dismissed the notion as inefficient at best. If a lollygagging buffoon like Wright could run through fire to reach a goal, nothing short of an inferno would work on his own, precisely-chiselled mind. 

Not for the first time, Miles cursed Von Karma's hand in his upbringing.

Luckily for his mental health, it was at that moment that his door swung rudely open. Glad of the distraction, Miles thumped his fist onto the desk, scowl already in place, and looked up to chastise the trespasser...and stopped dead.

For a painfully long moment, all he could do was stare. The image before him burned through his retinas, lighting along optic nerves to explode across his brain, wiping out all capacity for higher thought. He was entranced, instantly and irrevocably entranced, and the world's most powerful earthquake could not have torn his consciousness from him.

Phoenix's face dropped. “Oh. You...You don't like it.”

Broad shoulders slumped, and the newly-reinstated defense attorney let out a heavy sigh. “So much for giving you a nice surprise in your office, huh? I'll go change into that other suit and we can take this one back, maybe that Jacques guy can-”

“If you move so much as one inch in any direction other than mine, I will kill you.”

“...”

Miles realised he was on his feet, pointing an accusatory finger at his lover. He made to lower his arm, then his gaze caught once more on the The New Suit. It was brighter than he could remember approving, royal blue almost indigo with a subtle cling about the shoulders to show off their breadth; there were seven years of manual labour behind those shoulders, seven years of fatherhood and strife and toil and deception, seven years of poker and Trucy and dubious grape juice and _Kristoph Gavin_ , but whatever those years had taken from Phoenix, they had given him the shoulders he had always needed to carry the world's weight.

Down the shoulders, alongside yet another obnoxious tie, wide lapels tapered over a broad chest; Jacques had worked a little devilry here, the material hugging tight enough to show the solid, masculine jut of that classic torso. Miles could have lost himself in Phoenix's breathing, the rise and fall of that rich, beautiful blue, but his attention was drawn by a a glitter of light at Phoenix's left side. There, gleaming in its rightful place at long last, was his badge. It looked tiny, like the last, littlest ember, but Miles knew the ferocity of the fire that sprung from such embers, his own wounds long since cauterized by those same flames, and his heart stumbled in his chest – it was too much, this feeling, too _much_ , and he shied from it, focusing instead on what was before his eyes.

Beyond the proud sparkle of his badge, Phoenix had apparently learned to properly accessorize. The golden chain, Miles knew, must lead to a pocket watch inherited from his grandfather, a tarnished old relic that had long since lost its tick. There was also a flash of gold at the wrists – sweet God above, Jacques got him to use cuff-links – drawing the eye to pure white cuffs closed around fine-boned wrists. Phoenix's hands hung loosely at his sides, clever, blunt-fingered hands, and Miles had no doubt that they would soon ruin the perfect diagonal slash of the trouser pockets. Phoenix had never quite got the hang of gloves or briefcases, preferring to stuff both hands and evidence into his pockets willy-nilly and damn the consequences. And of course, there was something _far_ more interesting in between those two pockets...

And then there was the waistcoat. Really, Miles could have resisted everything else, but he had no defence against such evil. Lighting Phoenix up in sky blue, the material had a finer weave than the rest of the suit, with no hint of the extravagant embroidery that bedecked Miles' waistcoats. Instead, dark threaded stitching revealed how the panels tapered, straight lines marred by the natural curve from chest to waist. The watch pocket sat empty, either incompetence or ignorance having led Phoenix to fix his watch chain higher up. There was also no sign of the braces that Phoenix _must_ be wearing underneath the vest, even with the almost pornographic cling of the bloody thing. 

Another of the tailor's tricks. Jacques, Miles decided, was a sadist. 

Phoenix cleared his throat. Miles, startled, looked up to see that his lover was grinning that old, familiar grin, with just a little of his newer, jaded smugness lingering about blue eyes. “Should I twirl, Mr Edgeworth, sir?” he teased, sliding his hands into his pockets carelessly enough to make Miles twitch, and leaning his weight on on leg so that his hips cocked, just slightly, just enough to draw the material tight across his crotch.

Miles swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and his thoughts decided to take the chance to make themselves known before he could run them past his internal censor. “Wright, if you have sock suspenders on, I will not be held responsible for my own actions.”

“Objection,” Phoenix smirked, one heel coming up off the floor as he bent a knee and dropped a hand to his hip in ridiculous imitation of a coquettish modelling pose. “Your culpability in this case-”

“Shut up.”

Despite Phoenix's later claims that he 'scrambled over that desk like a goddamn marine', Miles actually stepped around it, reaching his lover in four quick strides and grabbing his lapels. The material was gossamer soft beneath his fingers, the weave so fine that even he couldn't trace it, and he barely noticed Phoenix's laughter, or the sharp intake of his breath as Miles leaned down to rub his cheek against his collarbone. The faintest whiff of Jacques' cologne still lingered there, evidence the diligent care that he took with every inch of his work, and Miles found his fingers curling into claws.

“Whoa there, Miles, you're going to crease-”

“Shut _up_ ,” Miles growled, shoving Phoenix back with sudden violence, pressing him against the office door.

Once upon a time, that would have been enough. Puppyish, eager for every touch, it had taken so little to tempt Phoenix into compliance in his twenties; with Mia's loss still raw, Miles still ragged from the desolation wrought by von Karma, the violence had been enough for both of them. Rushed touches, hurried, snarled, tangled touches, a gunpowder spark in the darkness, pupils blown wide and hands clutching empty, slipping in sweat salty as tears.

Not so now. There was a new understanding in Phoenix's eyes, something like tiredness, something like the weariness that Miles carried like a cloak, the cross of self-loathing chafed and bruising across both of their backs. It had bowed them both, worn them down to the core, right down to the fire that eventually burned it away, left them soot-stained but straight-backed, still standing. Blue eyes that had once gazed uncomprehending now focused, pierced Miles and shot him through with honest, uncompromising love and didn't find him wanting. Now Phoenix laughed as he was pinned, laughter helpless and _so_ happy as Miles crushed their lips together, his hands unerring as they found Miles' jaw to hold him close.

“Hey,” he murmured, his chest still jolting with laughter when Miles drew back to press his nose back into blue softness, his fingers sliding back to cup Miles' scalp “Still me in here, y'know, s'just a new wrapper.”

“An _exquisite_ wrapper.”

Phoenix's fingers stroked in tiny movements, soothing. “Same skin, babe.”

Miles flinched at the endearment, testing his teeth against the crisp edge of the new dress shirt and catching skin to make Phoenix's breath jump. “I'd forgotten what this colour does to you,” he said, tugging the jacket with fingers unwilling to release their grip. “This blue, you...It makes you look younger.”

“Paedo.”

“I hardly think so,” Miles managed, after a moment, shuffling his hips clumsily into Phoenix, brushing deliberately against the very masculine evidence of the man's adulthood, eliciting a grunted reply. “Although your taste in ties would offer something of a contradiction.”

“You're just mad because I took your pyjamas in as a sample colour.”

“Our arrangement does not entitle you to pilfer my belongings.” Miles punctuated the reprimand with a tug, throwing the jacket open so that he could get at the waistcoat. There wasn't an inch of give, the garment perfectly moulded to its wearer. “That said, I can't fault you on the use of my old watch chain.”

Phoenix's amusement rumbled through his chest, a low hum beneath Miles' fingertips, and he chased its trail, marvelling at the liquid texture of the fabric. “You clocked that, huh?”

There wasn't enough withering scorn in the world to meet _that_ pun. Miles would have commented as such, but calloused fingertips were wandering down his neck, sliding under the lip of his cravat to tease at the hidden skin. The touch was ticklish-light, sparking a shiver that ricocheted down his back and he rocked into his lover's body, raking his hands over that plain, liquid silk, mussing the material and petting it smooth over and over. Phoenix arched into him, his hips beginning a tiny, restless rhythm as Miles slid a knee between his legs. 

The prosecutor allowed himself to finger the cool metal of the uppermost vest button, circling speculatively, testing the thread's give. Phoenix shuddered at that, his skin primed to that slow, teasing spin. He tugged at the cravat, dragging Miles' lips away from his collar and into a kiss. “Are you going to molest me, Prosecutor Edgeworth?” he murmured, as he drew back.

“I plan nothing of the sort,” Miles lied. It never ceased to be amazing, how Phoenix could so effortlessly ruffle his composure simply by slipping his tongue into his mouth. He shifted, pressing himself very deliberately against that hard jut of Phoenix's cock, just to make his lover gasp then, with vicious abruptness, he took hold of the waistcoat in both hands and _yanked_ , the material separating with a gratifying _riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip_ , buttons scattering with a surprised, raindrop clatter across the office floor.

“Wh- Miles!”

Miles surveyed his work, ignoring the slight burn across his palms. “Oh, that is _so_ much better.”

Phoenix gaped. The waistcoat that had fitted him so perfectly now swung open, its ruined threads dangling almost forlornly, revealing the unfashionably wide tie that Phoenix had no doubt insisted on. “Miles, this vest was _four thousand_...”

“Best money I ever spent,” Miles interrupted, taking hold of the irksome tie and pulling to test the knot; it was a neat, symmetrical half-Windsor with a fussy dimple, offering no give whatsoever, and he wound the material around his hand, pulling it taut when Phoenix opened his mouth to protest. “I am going to burn this,” he said, with a tug for emphasis, “And you will purchase a replacement in amaranth, which you will untie properly when removing, rather than yanking it over your head like a schoolboy. Am I clear?”

Judging by the stuttering jolt of Phoenix's hips, he was being very clear indeed. Blue eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, and the hands that had dropped, surprised by his sudden fit of violence, lifted to grasp at him, clutching and needy. “Can I call you a hypocrite for that, given what you've just done?” came the somewhat distracted reply.

In answer, Miles yanked the tie again in an echo of his lover's earlier playfulness and met Phoenix's eager mouth, lip-to-lip, head tilted and the roughsoft push of Phoenix's tongue, the heat and wet and taste of him, breaths shared, the clumsy nudge of his nose, his hands tangling tight, so tight...

They were both panting now, breathless with each other. Miles realised, dimly, that he was rocking into Phoenix with every half-drawn gasp, that Phoenix was meeting him thrust for thrust, nonsense tumbling into his mouth from the other man's lips; Phoenix never stopped talking during sex, love stuttering through every broken, hitching breath, every pleasurepained groan, as though he simply couldn't stop himself. It had unnerved Miles at first. He was so used to silence, to the studied composure of his own controlled quiet, but Phoenix could only be earnest in his desire, vocal and reckless, a study in wild abandon.

Thank god for office soundproofing.

That neat half-Windsor was unrecognizable, a crumpled wreck, and Miles dragged the tie from Phoenix's neck with a rough jerk, tossing it aside and scrabbling for white shirt buttons. Phoenix was absolutely no help whatsoever; he was tugging in vain at Miles' jacket, his lips still mumbling clumsy, and the prosecutor kissed him again, swallowing the sound. The shirt buttons were scattering as he drove his tongue into Phoenix's mouth. There was a murmur against his tongue, a soft vibration of his own name that he answered with a grunt and a determined tug that sent yet more buttons clattering to the floor.

“The couch,” he growled, as he drew back.

Phoenix was beaming, his fingers still clutched into Miles' jacket, looking a little love-drunk around the eyes. He said, “Want me to bring what's left of the suit, or-”

“The couch, Wright.”

It took some manouvering; Miles was having difficulty convince his hands to release Phoenix and the other man couldn't have fastened himself closer to the prosecutor if he'd superglued his lips. Miles did at least manage to wrestle the blue jacket off his lover's broad shoulders, dropping it carelessly to the floor; it was a tribute to how far gone Phoenix was that he didn't show a moment's concern for the fate of his grandfather's watch. Instead, he whined when Miles' questing fingers found the bared skin of his chest, stroking greedily beneath the soft cotton of the shirt and taut elastic of the suspenders. 

It was not the most dignified method of mounting a couch, to be sure. Phoenix,shambling backwards and thoroughly distracted, let out a yelp as he stumbled into it, collapsing with a wild flail of his arms that, combined with the death-grip Miles had on him, conspired to bring the prosecutor down on top of him with bruising force.

Phoenix burst out laughing.

Irritated, Miles struggled upright, somewhat hampered by their entanglement, and blew hair out his eyes with a huff of frustration. At least he hadn't done any damage to the mood; Phoenix's cock jolted hard against his leg with each spasm of laughter and he braced himself on one hand to reach down, ignoring the uncomfortable press of his own confined erection, to stroke that smooth blue material.

Phoenix's laughter stuttered, trailing into a gasp, and he wriggled his hips, pushing into Miles' hand. The prosecutor rubbed a little harder, just to the see the muscles jump in Phoenix's neck, then tugged at the clasp. The metal hook and eye gave way easily, as did the internal button, and Miles felt rather than heard his own groan as he slid his fingers over silk – boxers hadn't been part of the original order, but Jacques was a perfectionist. Phoenix's hands were yanking somewhat frantically at Miles' own clothes now but he leaned down, crushing himself to Phoenix's chest, trapping his hands between them, and buried his face in Phoenix's crumpled shirt collar, latching onto sweat-salty skin to make him shudder. “No,” he managed, his fingers still stroking hot flesh through cool silk. “No, herzchen.”

It said something about how uncomfortably he used endearments that the words were enough to halt Phoenix's struggles.The defense attorney twisted to nose at his hair, kissing softly. “So that would be me lying back and thinking of England, then?”

“Yes.”

Another laugh, this one softly, fondly amused. Phoenix shifted, rubbing himself against Miles' fingers, and let out a low, pleased noise when Miles drew back just enough to a tighten his grip, stroking him in earnest. “I g-guess I can live with th-that.”

Miles licked in response, startling a cry out of him, then nibbled along the sharp just of his collarbone, easing himself into a more comfortable position on his knees. “Then allow me to test your resolve,” he breathed, and bit him.

The response was electric. Phoenix whined, hips jolting, almost unseating him with the force of his thrusts; Miles rode the movement, only releasing his teeth when his lover began to struggle and settling himself in a comfortable straddle, one hand braced on his lover's chest and with the straight back of a dressage champion. For a moment, he let Phoenix's clumsy thrusts jolt them together, then he ground his cock hard against the man, bearing down to still his movements. “What happened to that famous willpower of yours?”

Phoenix scowled. It might have proved a more effective censure had he not been rock-hard and straining, his cheeks flushed and his lips hanging loosely open despite his best efforts. “Says the man who's just proved himself to be a bodice-ripper.”

“...the day you wear a bodice, I will-”

“Rip it,” Phoenix purred, clearly delighted by his own cleverness, and Miles thumped him.

“You are incorrigible,” he said, reaching down to fumble his belt open one-handed. Phoenix lay still beneath him, his fingers steel-tight in their grip on Miles' thighs but otherwise quiescent. Dark eyes were fixed hungrily on his hand, sweat-hot skin taut against his fingertips. “So patient,” he said softly, approvingly.

Phoenix's lips twisted, not quite a smile, and Miles couldn't stop himself leaning in to kiss the bitterness away, Phoenix's cock rubbing against his hand as he freed himself from the constriction of his pants. There was a moan hushing its way into his mouth, heartbeat flutter-thunder and the sweet relief of skin-to-skin-to-skin. A twitch, a jolt, an awkwardness of hips and tangling clothes and arrhythmia before Miles recovered enough of his wits to take them both in hand; Phoenix's lips broke from his, Miles' name a shuttered, stuttering groan as they rocked together. 

Miles was dimly aware of the sound of fabric tearing, the low protest of stressed seams giving up their fight, but his focus was entirely on Phoenix; the weight and breadth of his cock, its heat, vein-to-vein, friction sweetsore, skin too tight, too damned tight. It wasn't enough, far too much, and his clothes were clinging to him now, sweat prickling between cotton and skin, not enough _skin_ as he thrust into his hand, into Phoenix's body, against the needy jut of his cock.

“Mi-iles,” his name, cleft in two by his lover's gasping mouth. Miles wanted to kiss him, fasten his lips once more to soft skin and hard muscle, but he couldn't think of anything beyond tightening his grip, pumping faster. He was sharing Phoenix's breaths, their foreheads pressed together, nose to cheek in an awkward puppy-nuzzle. His eyes were closed, Miles realised, closed to darkness and the honest solidity of Phoenix's strength rocking up, up, up, Phoenix's hands gripping so tight they felt white-hot through Miles' pants. 

He was never going to last. He'd been wound tighter than a spring all day, Phoenix and the damned suit the only constants in his mind. Strange to think he had once lived without this; without that clever tongue struck dumb, without the low desperation of his name moaned up into the humid air between them, without Phoenix Wright. 

It was senseless. Senseless and desperate, the rut of their hips, the fierce clasp of his hand, wet heat; he opened his eyes to Phoenix's, bright bright blue in the haze, and he felt the the cry that tumbled from his lips, coming and coming apart, utterly lost in his lover.

Stillness, but for the heave of their chests.

It took a moment for him to come back to himself. Reluctantly, he sat up a little, wincing as they peeled apart with a rasping sound, and tried to ignore the heady thrum of blood beneath his skin, the slickness of come and sweat. “...well, I hope you have the receipt somewhere.”

Phoenix was watching him, his eyes heavy-lidded, and his smile was all satisfaction, all fondness. “I never knew you had such a weakness for fine tailoring.”

“It was the waistcoat,” Miles replied, distractedly, studying the creased, semen-spattered wreck that now hung in such limp rags. “I should never have let Jacques talk me into-” He paused, suddenly remembering exactly _whose_ handiwork he had just ruined. “Wright, if Jacques should murder me, I absolutely forbid you to defend him.”

“I'm sure he'll understand,” Phoenix said, with the blithe uncaring of someone who has never felt the wroth of a gay Frenchman. He was stretching, rolling his neck and further rumpling the spiky bird's nest that his hair had become, and the warm, intimate press of his softened cock as he arched his back sent a curious, electric tingle through Miles' body, setting his skin a-shiver.

It didn't go unnoticed. Phoenix relaxed, resettling his hands on Miles' thighs, and cocked his head to one side, making an obvious show of studying Miles' mostly-intact suit. “So... My turn?”


End file.
